


Weak

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: hc_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:37:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It ain't right, what they did," Merle mumbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weak

**Author's Note:**

> Post Episode 103. Written for LJ's hc_bingo for the prompt "torture". As always, Merle is a racist and his views are not mine.
> 
> * * *

"It ain't right, what they did," Merle mumbles.

He reaches out for the bottle, takes another swig of whiskey and winces at the burn in his gullet. Been too long since he had any decent hooch, what with his little brother ditching the case he hocked outta the broken window at O'Malley's to make room for a box of canned corn and smelly sausages. He ought've knocked Daryl's teeth out right then, 'cept there was a shitload of walkers on their tail and it was more fun to play shootin' gallery while Daryl peeled 'em out of town.

Took down seven of 'em, even with Daryl's shitty driving.

Merle takes another gulp, cradles the bottle against his dirty wife-beater. Somewhere in the back of his head he remembers reading that alcohol thins the blood, and that's probably the last thing he needs right now. But the pain is nothing short of astronomical, a fire in the stump that remains of his arm that burns so hot it makes him see stars, and drowning all that pain in whiskey is about the best idea he's got. 

"Shouldn't have left me there. Ain't nothin' short of torture, leavin' a man chained up to roast alive on a rooftop on the hottest day of the damn month. Officer Friendly! Officer Go Fuck Yourself In The Ass, more like. You know!" he says, and when he raises his hand to point emphatically the bottle tips, spilling some of the precious fire-dousing pain-killing liquid on his pants. He frowns and raises the bottle again, stops with it halfway to his lips. "You know what they're like," he continues, "them high and mighty deputies with their goddamn rules and the fuckin' regulations! Goddamn boy scouts is what they are. Shouldn't have left me there."

Merle leans back, rests his head on the back of the sofa. For the life of him, he can't recall what must've set off Officer Fuck Himself. Merle was just tryin' to do the right thing, is all. Tryin' to get people in order, make sure things got done right. Everybody knows you can't trust a bunch of wetbacks and slant-eyes to run things. 'Specially when there was--

"And was there walkers?" Merle cackles out a laugh. "Damn straight there was walkers! But I took care of them. Yes, I did. You know it." 

He takes another long pull from the bottle, closes his eyes briefly before remembering his manners. Damn, his ma would run a strip off him, turn over in her grave if she saw him now. "I'm sorry, you want some?" he asks. 

He takes a long look at the corpse on the sofa, some gook with a chewed up stomach and a bullet hole through its head. "Didn't think so," he mumbles.

Merle closes his eyes again, the pain in his arm dulled to a thin, persistently sharp ache. He's not sure when the bottle slips from his grip or when he falls into a restless, nightmare-filled sleep. But when he wakes up in the morning, his head is pounding and there is a dark-haired man standing over him.

"You an angel, come to take me home?" Merle asks groggily.

The man smiles and steps forward. "They call me the Governor," he says. "As for home? We'll see about that."


End file.
